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The wall greets his back like an old friend and his heart jack-rabbits, old fear surging up, surging forth, blocking his mind and his thoughts and everything, everything, is wrong.
He's dead, he thinks as he stares at the black eyes of the man pinning him there. He's supposed to be dead.
"I killed you," is what he says.
It was supposed to have worked.
Yet Jerry only smiles. There is blood on his teeth, tainting his fangs. "Should've done a better job," he says.
Charley struggles at the sound of his voice. It hooks into an instinct, a primal part of him; the sound of that voice is the sound of his nightmares, so his body reacts before his mind. Thrashes. Struggles. Fights.
Nothing happens. Jerry hardly budges.
He chuckles, holding Charley in place with his hands clamped to his upper arms. "You didn't think it would be that easy, did you?"
"You think that was easy?" Charley bursts in surprise. "I set myself on fire!"
Jerry's grin is a dangerous thing, filled with promises and threats. "I didn't see that one coming," he admits. "I like that."
His hands tighten on Charley's arms, his nails digging in through the material of his shirt. They pierce through skin easily, and Charley sucks a pained hiss of air as he feels blood start to bead inside his shirt. He's really going to die here, he realises. After all the fighting, all the loss, it's going to be like this.
He thrashes again, boots slamming out to aim for Jerry's shins, but Jerry shakes him like a rag-doll, bashing his head against the unforgiving wall. "Don't get cute," Jerry says. His arms shift, lightning-fast, one like a bar across Charley's chest to hold him in place while the other braces against the wall near his head, fingers tangling into his curls. "I had fun back there, didn't you?"
Jerry is so close that Charley can smell the blood on his breath, like copper coins on the air. He closes his eyes and tries to press himself back into the wall, further away from him, but there's nowhere to go.
"I'm up for a rematch, if you are," Jerry says.
It takes a moment for it to sink through the fog of fear. Charley blinks. "What do you mean?"
"Tomorrow night. Back at my old place. Just you and me." Jerry's eyes get darker and he presses in closer; every inch of Charley's body in covered by him, their chests pressing together. Jerry's head dips until his lips skate by the curve of Charley's ear. "Winner takes all."
Charley doesn't have a clue what that even means: kill or be killed, that's all he understands when it comes to Jerry. Only now Jerry's leg is pressing between his thighs and he feels his face heating up when Jerry grinds upwards.
"What if I say no?" he asks, yet his mouth feels dry and his mind is spinning. "What if I don't turn up?"
He feels the curve of Jerry's grin against his ear. "Then I'll hunt you down," he says, like it's obvious. "You, and your mom, and your girl. I'll finish Peter off while I'm at it."
All those lives are dependant on him. Jerry's probably going to kill them anyway if he doesn't manage to take him out first.
Jerry's attention skims downward and his lips trail onto Charley's neck. His pulse speeds up, thumping through his veins. His limbs twitch, aching to fight, but all he can do is lean back while Jerry breathes in deeply. There's a stab of wet pressure over his neck as Jerry's tongue licks over his skin - but no pain. No blood.
"It's up to you how this plays out," Jerry says, pushing away from Charley and the wall with a grunt. "I'll see you soon."
He swaggers back to his new car as Charley doubles over and tries to remember how to breathe. It's been a year. This is supposed to be over.
Why does he get the feeling that it's only just beginning?
There's a thudding sense of inevitability to it all as he returns to the old neighbourhood. He's got a new stock of weapons courtesy of Peter and eBay, but it doesn't feel like enough. He feels like he's walking into the dragon's den.
The plot where their house used to sit is still a burnt-out husk, and he knows that nobody has moved into Jerry's old place either. The whole neighbourhood is a ghost town, now. Too much death; too much loss.
He still thinks he can feel eyes watching him from the windows. Maybe he can.
In the quiet dusk, his footsteps sound like anvils as he makes his way up the drive. There are no lights on inside. He pulls out his torch and flicks it on. When he reaches the door he expects to find it locked - but it swings open easily under his hand, with a long, winding creak that sets his teeth on edge.
Jerry must already be here.
His heart starts pounding again as he swings the beam of his flashlight back and forth, chasing nothing more than shadows. The house is still silent. He reaches into his pocket and runs his fingers over the small glass bottle that he has inside. Holy water all the way from the Vatican itself, if Peter is to be believed. Charley has to hope it works.
He sticks close to the walls, swinging his limited light back and forth. There are still gaping holes in the floor from their last battle, but he thinks the lingering blood in the air is just his imagination.
From near the door, he hears the softness of a footfall.
He must only hear it if Jerry wants him to hear it, but he reacts anyway: he turns off his torch and slips backwards into the shadows, crouching down near the corner while his eyes struggle to adjust to the almost complete darkness.
"Are we back to this old game?" Jerry asks as he enters the room. "Hide and seek?"
Charley doesn't say a word. He breathes as quietly as he can and prays that Jerry can't hear the pounding of his heart. It feels so damnably loud in his ears.
Jerry's footsteps are a funeral march as he makes his way around the large gaps in the floorboards. "You can't win," Jerry says. "I think you know that. You can't kill me; I'll just come back. Again and again and again."
Charley breathes short and shallow through his mouth as Jerry paces - only a few feet away from him, dangerously close. He can see his silhouette from the moonlight through the window, but nothing more than that. He's made from the shadows, from the darkness itself.
"I'm not going to kill you," Jerry promises the silence. "I'm not even going to turn you."
And, yeah, Charley could laugh at the sound of that.
He's sure that all Jerry wants is a nice chat and a good cuddle.
His legs are starting to ache from kneeling for so long. If Jerry would just move he could stand a chance of surprising him...
"I'm going to keep you," Jerry continues. "I've got a new place now, and there's a nice room there just waiting for you. Do you remember my rooms, Charley? Do you remember... What's her name? The stripper you burned?"
Doris, Charley thinks, and she wasn't a stripper.
He doesn't say a word.
Jerry's footsteps take him into the next room. Charley waits and counts his heart beats for one second, two, before he dares to move from his hiding place. He grips hold of the bottle in his pocket and pulls a stake from inside his jacket (dipped in the blood of Christ himself and made from a fragment of the true cross, if Peter's sources are accurate).
Just a chance. Just a split-second of luck. That's all he needs.
It's not going to be that easy.
It's never that easy.
He follows Jerry into the next room, keeping close to the wall, like a star chasing the night. His thumb works at the cork of the bottle in his hand, popping it open. The sound is a miniature explosion in this small room.
Jerry pauses and then laughs, a deep chuckle that rumbles right through his chest. "You must really think I'm stupid," he rumbles as he turns around.
"I'm kind of counting on it," Charley answers - before he swishes the bottle forward, the holy water splashing out of it like a contained fountain.
It lands on Jerry's skin with the hiss of acid, and his roar of pain makes Charley want to piss himself with fear. He tightens his grip on the stake instead and takes a breath to charge forward. He needs to end this.
He runs, closing the space between them as Jerry clutches his steaming face. Got to aim right. There's only going to be one chance.
One chance, that's all.
He gets close enough and his arm arcs down. An inch from its target, a grip like steel closes around his wrist. Jerry's face is still hissing from the holy water, but that doesn't stop him from squeezing Charley's wrist until the bone threatens to snap. His fingers loosen unwillingly. The stake clatters to the ground.
Jerry straightens up, the inhuman planes of his face highlighted by the moon through smashed windows. His eyes are black and his teeth are sharp and his grip is stronger than iron.
"Got you," he hisses triumphantly. Charley throws himself backwards, tugging hard, but it's as useless as a fish struggling on a line. All it does is make Jerry laugh at him, cruelly amused. "You're not going anywhere."
That won't stop him from trying.
His wrist aches and if he keeps struggling then he's going to dislocate it. His mind registers this from miles away and he uses his other hand to hunt through his gear, strapped all over his body, so many goodies from Peter's store.
He doesn't make it far in his hunt. His fingers are about to close around a crucifix when Jerry scoops up that wrist as well and holds it firmly out in front of him. "I won fair and square," Jerry croons, holding him in place as if it's nothing, as if he isn't struggling at all. "Remember our terms? Winner takes all."
The night isn't over yet - he still has a chance, there is always a chance. Yet he finds himself pressed against the nearest wall, the air crushed from his chest. Jerry's face is a study in darkness and shadow, highlighted with only the occasional silver. His eyes are limitless pools of night.
"Get off me," Charley grunts, but Jerry gives him no quarter.
His wrists are abruptly released but there is no chance to relish the freedom; he finds himself being hitched up the wall, Jerry's hands on his hips before they travel down his thighs, arranging Charley as he wants him, his legs spread, pinned against the wall by Jerry's pelvis and his supernaturally strong arms. He feels like a butterfly nailed to a board.
Charley can feel how hard Jerry is; it's impossible to ignore the way it's digging into him. It's equally impossible to ignore the way that Jerry is looking at him like he wants to devour every inch of him. "Let me go," Charley insists angrily, although he knows it isn't going to work. He has to say it anyway.
Jerry grins and surges forward, cutting off what little space Charley had. Their mouths clash together, a ruthless assault as Jerry forces his jaw open and pushes his tongue inside, tasting every inch of him with a determined sense of possession. Charley's complaints are muffled and swallowed; he pushes at Jerry's shoulders but Jerry doesn't budge, doesn't even seem to feel it.
He tries to bite down but Jerry moves back before he can, withdrawing from Charley's mouth but staying close, ready to strike. "Careful," he warns, voice like gravel. "You don't want my blood in you. Not yet."
Fuck fuck fuck, Charley thinks as he tries to slide out of Jerry's grasp - but his struggles only make Jerry groan and grind his hips against Charley through their jeans. He can feel himself getting hard automatically, unable to fight it.
Jerry's grin widens and his fingers creep under Charley's ass to the seat of his jeans, running along the dip between his cheeks. Charley tries to wriggle away to no avail, and his body freezes when he hears the sound of tearing material: Jerry's claws cutting through denim like it's nothing more than paper.
"You can't do this," he shouts - but there's no one in town to hear him, he knows. They're all dead or gone. It's just him, just Jerry, and he's running out of options.
He feels Jerry's smile against his own lips, the scent of blood too close to him now. Jerry's claws fade back to ordinary fingers and press between Charley's cheeks, skimming over his asshole and circling the pucker. Charley flinches away but it does nothing, nothing at all.
"You'll enjoy it more if you stop fighting," Jerry tells him. "You are so ripe, Charley. I promise: I'll make it good."
There's something about Jerry's voice that trembles right through him: it's the promise of release from all the fear, all the worry, all the stress. The promise of oblivion. It's so tempting to close his eyes and give in for once. Someone else can fight; someone else can be the hero.
He hears the rattle of Jerry's belt being pulled free and the snick of his zip being released. Jerry holds him up with only one arm for a moment as his hips pull back long enough for him to push his jeans down his thighs. Charley won't look. He doesn't want to see what Jerry's packing.
Then Jerry is back against him, the tip of his cock smearing beads of liquid against Charley's clothes. He reaches into his jeans and pulls a sachet of lube from his pocket, tearing it open with his teeth while Charley stares with wide, surprised eyes.
This is really happening, he thinks as Jerry dribbles the lube over his cock. He's being held up against a wall by a vampire to whom consent is apparently irrelevant, and he's probably going to die once this is over - and he's not sure if he's ever been this turned on before in his entire life.
It bubbles through him like a drug as he realises that he wants this, adrenaline pumping through his veins, his heart pounding through his chest. Still trapped in the confines of his ripped trousers, his cock is so hard that it hurts.
"You ready?" Jerry asks, as if he really gives a shit - as if he'd stop if Charley said no.
Aligning himself with Charley through the hole he'd ripped in Charley's jeans, Jerry gives a contented groan from the back of his throat. Charley can feel the blunt tip of Jerry's cock pressing against him, slicked up but unspeakably large.
He struggles on instinct, knowing that this is going to hurt, but Jerry hushes him and tightens his grip on his hips, letting him sink down a few inches; gravity does most of the work, before Jerry pulls back again, edging his way in, getting Charley used to the intrusion. It's a long, burning stretch with friction like fire; Jerry feels so big, like he might tear Charley apart if they're not careful. He doesn't know how much of that is perspective and imagination, but he doesn't care: it stings.
"Attaboy," Jerry moans as Charley is gradually able to take more of him inside. He hitches Charley's legs up higher and slides deeper into him, all the way now, until his hips are flush with Charley's ass. He grins when he's fully seated, kissing his triumph into Charley's mouth.
And, god, he feels so full like this. It's unbelievable; it's impossible.
He makes an aborted attempt a moving, but he can barely even wriggle with Jerry's hands clamped onto his thighs. His hands glide onto Jerry's chest, over the spot where his heart should lie, where he had staked the bastard and watched him fade to dust.
Jerry pulls out slowly, carefully. "How's it feel?" he asks, a gravel-filled tremble in his voice. "Finally having me inside you. Is it as good as you imagined? Better?"
Charley grits his teeth. He won't answer. Won't speak. Won't give him the satisfaction.
But, god, the slide of Jerry inside him is so slow and long and perfect. Every so often, Jerry will bump against a patch inside him that makes his entire body tense and quiver, drops of seed leaking from the top of his dick.
"You're so good," Jerry groans. He fucks faster now, using Charley as he wants to be used. "Just like I knew you'd be. Such a slut. You've been aching for it, haven't you?"
Charley screws his eyes shut; he won't answer. Won't listen, even if every word makes him feel like he might come just from this, just from Jerry's iron cock pumping inside him.
"You're gonna get it now," Jerry breathes against his ear, rewarding him with the faintest scrape of teeth over his earlobe. "Every night. I'm gonna spread your legs and fuck your little hole every goddamn way I can think of. You're going to beg me for it, aren't you?"
He isn't going to speak, isn't going to acknowledge what he's saying, but he can't fight the choked moan that escapes from him as sparks fly from his prostate. It's almost a sob. He's close, so close, but it isn't enough.
He reaches for his cock but Jerry catches him before he can touch himself, pinning his hand against the wall. "I'm the only one that gets to touch you now," Jerry growls.
And if he wasn't so turned on Charley would laugh. He ought to ask for the specific terms of those rules; what about when he needs to piss? It's the kind of ridiculous statement that needs to be mocked thoroughly, but then Jerry's hand is around his cock and Charley doesn't feel like mocking anything at all any more.
It doesn't take long for Jerry to drag him into orgasm, still fucking him through it as Charley spurts over the pair of them, crying out into the silence of the house. It feels like his body isn't his own any more, as if he's surrendered it entirely: bliss, utter bliss.
Jerry grunts his own release soon after and hides his face against Charley's neck as he climaxes, his lips pressed tight against Charley's skin with just the faintest hint of teeth. Charley's pulse pounds and throbs, but Jerry doesn't bite down. He licks and sucks his way through his orgasm, but he never breaks the skin.
He pulls back, pulls out, and lowers Charley carefully so that his feet can touch the ground once more. Charley isn't sure if his legs are going to be able to support him for long. He leans against the wall and pants for air, knowing that this is the moment: he should take one of the weapons he still has on him and get rid of Jerry again, do it properly this time.
He doesn't move an inch.
Jerry reaches out for him after he's pulled his jeans back up. He runs his large hand over Charley's face, stroking his thumb over his bottom lip. "Are you going to come willingly or do I have to carry you out?" Jerry asks.
And that, finally, is when Charley starts laughing, high and a little hysterical.
He can't think of a single answer.
Jerry is true to his word. He doesn't kill him. He keeps him in one of his cells - it's different from the ones that Charley had seen before. He has a bed and a bathroom. Books. Jerry brings him food and water, keeps him healthy, keeps him safe.
They fuck more often than Charley can take; he goes along with it because he's bored, because he's scared, because he's lonely. There's something Pavlovian about the way his cock starts to stand to attention just from the sound of Jerry's voice; Jerry learns all of the best ways to take him apart. He's good. It's dangerous how good he is.
"How long is this going to go on for?" he dares to ask, while they're both basking in the afterglow and Jerry is licking sweat from his bare skin. "When are you going to let me go?"
Let me die, is what he means, but he won't say it. He doesn't plan on dying - not here, not by Jerry's hand, not like this.
Jerry smiles against the curve of his bicep. "Not for a long time, guy," he says. "You're the most fun I've had in centuries."
Charley rests his head against his pillow and wishes he knew how to be less fun; he wishes he knew how to stop fighting Jerry at every step. That's what is keep Jerry entertained - that means it's also what is keeping him alive and trapped.
He doesn't know how to win any more. He's lost track of the game.
The claw of Jerry's thumb drags along his bicep, sharp enough to inflict a small cut. Charley still winces against the sting, even if he has dozens of similar scratches by this point. He recognises what comes next as well, as Jerry's tongue laps cat-like against the cut to take every drop of blood that swells.
Lying there, spent and exhausted and at Jerry's mercy, Charley thinks of all of the ways he's going to kill him when he gets a chance. He thinks of fire and stakes and sunlight. He thinks of the sharpness of an axe slicing through Jerry's neck.
It's going to happen; he's going to be free.
Jerry's mouth is on his arm and his tongue is coated in his blood, but he hasn't won yet. Charley isn't ready to stop fighting.